SPN fanfiction - Sam and Dean - in trouble with Bobby
by spnfanfromeurope
Summary: Don't get Bobby mad, you won't like it. As Dean and Sam finds out in this. In my minds eye, Sam and Dean are in their twenties in this, but you can fit it in where you like. Warnings: contains consensual non-sexual punishment belt spankings. No ships nor smut. I own nothing. This belongs to the same group of stories as "Dean in trouble with John." (i.e. my abusiveJohn-verse).


Dean stumbled into the room, propelled by the hand shoving him in the back.  
Bobby was right at his heels, constantly pushing at him with one hand, while he towed Sam along behind like a tugboat pulling a ferry. Bobby had his fist wrapped into Sam's coat near the shoulder, making the tall young man hunch down slightly, practically walking sideways, his usual easy long-legged stride disrupted by the proximity of the older man in front of him.  
Off balance, Sam staggered, almost tripping over Bobby's feet, which elicited a growl from the other man, who responded by pulling Sam roughly in through the door, swinging around, and sending him in the direction of his brother with a quick pull-turn-shove-move that had Sam wobbling into the office like a newborn colt.  
Dean grabbed him just before the two men crashed into each other.  
Their eyes met in a quick glance of unspoken consensus: "This day is not going at all well."

Neither of the brothers said anything. They just turned together to face the man who was more like a father to them than their actual father had ever been.  
They stood silently, shoulder by shoulder, while Bobby told them, in excruciating detail, what he thought about having to rush off in the middle of the night to save the asses of: "Two idjits who rush into things without any plans or even sense enough to rush out again, when things go sideways".  
Sam shifted uneasily at: "Morons who rush through their research half-assed" and Dean winced when Bobby mentioned: "Going in half-cocked without the proper weapons to finish the job."  
Both young men sagged a bit at: "Taking unnecessary risks to life and limb."

The normally laconic man kept at it for a rather astonishing length of time, even switching into Japanese now and again when English apparently lacked terms of appropriately scalding derogatory meaning.  
Sam was sure his ears were smoking when Bobby finally wound down, and Dean was surprised to find that he had added at least two new swearwords to his otherwise extensive vocabulary in that particular linguistic area.

When Bobby stopped his tirade and stomped over to his desk for a swig of the whisky bottle stashed in a drawer, Dean shot a glance at his brother, then squared his shoulders, stepped over to Bobby and said quietly:  
"You're right, Bobby. And we **are** sorry."

"Sorry?" Bobby hurled the bottle back into the drawer, making Dean flinch.  
"Sorry's not gonna cut it, boy. There are no excuses for that stunt you two pulled today."

"We know, Bobby. We know. If you hadn't come so fast…"

Bobby grabbed Deans coat, pulled him close and shook him, hard enough to make his teeth rattle.  
"If I had been just 10 minutes further away, I wouldn't have been here shouting at you, I would have been digging your graves, you damn fools."

"Sorry Bobby."

"I could just throttle you," Bobby released Dean with a final shake, half turned and angrily backhanded Sam's shoulder, "the both of you, you idjits."

A new chorus of "Sorry" just seemed to anger the grizzled hunter even more.

"I refuse to have to bury you two. You get that? I've buried enough people in my life, not going to bury the two of you."

He dug a metal flask out of his inner pocket and took a swig, contained rage in every movement as he recapped it and threw it across the room, making Sam skip to the side to avoid getting brained.

"I should just shoot the pair of you myself," Bobby mumbled, "get it over with, since you are so gung-ho on getting yourselves killed. Now git."

"What?" that was Dean, wide-eyed, freckled faced, suddenly looking all of 12 years old.

"Get out, before I take a swing at you."

Dean shifted his weight, and said, low but clear: "No."

"What did you say to me?"

"I said: No, Sir. Not gonna get out. You take a swing at me. Whatever you gotta do, but I'm not going anywhere. We are family, I'm not gonna leave."

Bobby lifted a hand, and Dean's face scrunched up like he was expecting to get hit, but instead the hand just landed on his cheek, not exactly gently, but not hard enough to hurt either. Bobby kept his hand there for a while, staring into Dean's eyes.

"Damnit Dean," he said, sounding old and tired. "What am I gonna do with you, boy?"

"Whatever you have to Bobby, just don't ask me to leave, please."

The world hung in a breathless balance, until Bobby, angry again, whirled around, violently sweeping his desk clear of books.

"Okay then, if you insist. Bend over."

Sam had jumped back as books flew everywhere, but at that, he stopped to just stare incredulously at Bobby – and at Dean, who responded to the order by simply stepping up to the table, undoing his belt, and tugging his jeans to his knees before he bent over in a gliding, practiced move. He folded his arms before him, hiding his face in his elbow, then he just stood there and waited.

Sam felt his mouth hanging open. He glanced a Bobby, who looked about as taken aback as Sam was. There was a huff from the older hunter, then the jingle of a belt buckle and the sound of worn leather pulling through the loops of a pair of dilapidated jeans.

The first smack of leather on thin cotton boxer briefs elicited a grunt from Dean, but otherwise he stayed stoically silent until a stripe landed across the top of his thighs.  
Bobby's aim was a little off, and the belt wrapped around, tagging Deans hip, immediately raising a welt.  
Dean shot up with a yelp, half standing, without taking his hands off the surface of the desk.

Sam had a glimpse of his brother's face. It was white as bone, making his eyes seem unnaturally large and dark. Dean looked over his shoulder at Bobby.

"Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to get up, caught me by surprise," he gasped.

He looked almost panicky, and Bobby automatically reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, which just made Dean flinch so hard he almost tripped over, as his legs were still tangled into his jeans. Bobby grabbed him by the biceps, steadying him.

"Hey, hey, it's ok. Take a breath."

Dean leaned on the table and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

"It's ok, kid, but we are not quite done yet."

"I know Bobby, I know. That was just a bad one."

"Yeah, I know, tagged your hip on that one, think it might even leave a bruise, didn't mean to do that, and I am sorry about it, but still: get back down."

Bobby tapped a hand on Dean's back, making the younger man bend back down obediently.

Just as Dean hid his face again, Sam saw a look of such sick resignation there, that he felt his stomach do a somersault. Something more was going on here, something was not right, as if the fact that his surrogate father was currently beating the bejesus out of his big brother with a belt wasn't bad enough.

Bobby continued the assault, moving all the way down Dean's thighs, to a hands-width above the knees, then swiftly back up. As stripes landed on previously tenderized skin, Dean's breathing got ragged and he started shifting his weight rapidly from side to side. The last strike landed just where ass meets thighs – hard enough to leave a solid welt, sending Dean up on his toes, while his left hand shot out to grab the edge of the table. He stayed down, though.

Bobby put the belt on the table, and patted Dean's back awkwardly.  
"You can get up now, kid."

A deep shudder ran through Dean's body, as it lay there, stretched across the desk. Then he took a long breath and carefully pushed himself into a standing position. He reached down, pulling his jeans back up gingerly.

When he finally had them in place, Bobby reached out, slowly enough this time that Dean didn't flinch away, and pulled him into a hug. At first Dean stiffened, standing like a statue, but then he leaned into the embrace, resting his forehead on Bobby s shoulder, letting his arms go around the other man. Bobby moved a hand up, running it gently over the back of Dean's head.  
The gentleness did what the belt hadn't been able to: Dean's shoulders started to shake, then Bobby felt tears seeping through his shirt. He just kept stroking Dean's hair, letting the boy cry himself out. Privately, just between the two of them, he whispered:  
"You two are the sons, I never thought, I would have. I'm proud of both of you, but you always were my favorite, Dean. Don't do something so stupid again, please."  
Dean nodded against his shoulder, and leaned even heavier into him.  
When Bobby felt Dean calming down, he carefully disentangled himself, and turned to Sam.

"Sam?"

Sam stared at the desk. His eyes slipped automatically to the door. He could just walk out. He knew that neither Bobby, nor Dean, would try to stop him. He also knew that, if he did walk away from this, things would take a long time before they got back to normal between the three of them.

He really did not want to go over there, remove his jeans and bend over the desk to have Bobby, of all people, whale at his ass.

But in some strange way, he felt that he owed just that to Bobby, for the fear and worry he had caused him. To Dean, who had already taken a beating, and who could have died because Sam didn't insist on doing the proper research. To himself too, because he damn well knew that he had not done his best this time. His research had been sloppy, and he had all too eagerly jumped at the idea of going in too soon, too unready. He took a step towards the table, butterflies carousing in his stomach, when something suddenly clicked in his mind. He frowned at Dean.

"You've done this before."

It wasn't a question, but Dean responded anyway. He shrugged uncomfortably as if he was wearing a shirt two sizes too small.

"You have. I could see that."

Dean shook his head, not in denial, more as someone bothered by flies.

"It's ok Sammy, you don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I think I do, but first I want to know something. Because I know you. You've damn well taken a belt before. And not just once either."

"Don't worry Sammy, it's not that bad. Bobby's safe, he won't lose it, and he didn't even touch my back either."  
Dean's voice sounded vague, far away, almost as if he wasn't really there.

"What?!" That was Sam and Bobby together, both moving swiftly towards Dean, who snapped out of whatever pocket of time he had slipped into and stepped backwards. "Wha'?"

"What did you just say?"  
Bobby broke in with a string of curses, ending with: "John! John fucking well beat you? With a belt? On your back? Losing it?"

Dean waved a hand. "It's no big deal."

"Damnit you idjit, you should have told me -"  
"Yes, it is, how often did Dad do that to you? Why didn't I ever know?"

"I don't know how often, just when he didn't know what else to do. Come on, Dad did his best, and I wasn't easy."

"Dean you were the poster boy of easy. You always obeyed him blindly, you never told him off… shit, that's why you never stood up to him… wait... he never touched me, not since I was a small kid and got a trip over his knee once in a while…" Sam slumped dejectedly.

"Dean, who often?"

"Wha'?"

"How often did you take the blame for me or get en between, so Dad would take it out on you instead?"

"I don't know!" Dean was starting to get angry. "It was my job, you know that! Take care of my little brother. My pain-in-the-ass little brother. I'd much rather have Dad beat on me, than see him lose it on you anyway."

Bobby shouldered his way in between the brothers just as Sam drew in air to start yelling.

"Okay, okay. That's enough. Sam, Dean, stop it. It's long ago now,  
("not that long," Dean muttered, earning a glare from Bobby)  
"and yes, your Dad was an obsessed bastard, if I'd known then, what I just found out, I would have blasted that idjit so full of rock salt, he was crapping margaritas, but it's too late to change that now, and I'll not have the two of you at each other throats about something neither of us can change. We can talk about it tomorrow when we've cleared our brains.  
"Now Dean – go sit down over there," Bobby shoved Dean towards the couch, "and Sam, come on, let's get it over with."

Determined now, Sam went briskly up to the desk, shoved his jeans down and started to bend over.  
"Sammy, you don't have to…"

Sam shot back up pointing a finger at his brother:  
"Shut the hell up and sit down Dean, and yes I do."  
Sam glared angrily at Bobby, and snarled "Let's go, old man, have at it!"

He didn't really know why he was lashing out at Bobby, since he wasn't actually angry at him. But right now, Sam felt nothing but consuming rage at everything.  
The demon who killed his mother.  
His obsessed more-than-halfway-alcoholic father.  
The brother who had taken one silent beating after another, gods knew how often - or how many of them were because of something Sam had done, but he remembered one too many times, when Dean had been moving stiffly or had skipped a meal rather than sit down.  
And he was angry at himself for never figuring out what had been going on right in front of him, so yeah, he damn well lashed out… uhmmm... at… the… man… who had just picked up his belt… and oh... shit… maybe that *had* been a less than smart move… Bobby did not look very pleased and he had been pissed to begin with…. Sam froze for a moment, sank the lump which had suddenly formed in his throat.  
Dean was staring at him like he had just sprouted wings… Bobby doubled the belt up with an annoyed snapping sound, making Sam jump.

"Uhmm," Sam began, gulped again, then decided against potentially digging himself even deeper into the pit. Instead he slowly turned to the table and ungracefully leaned down over it. He felt a bit silly with his ass in the air like that. He didn't know what to do with his hands, so he copied his brother, folding his arms, tugging his face into the crook of an elbow.

He really felt like an idiot standing doubled up like this.  
That thought had scarcely flitted through his mind before the first stroke of the belt chased it away, along with every feeling of silliness.

Oh, shit. That **hurt**.  
The lash had sent him forward, slamming his hips into the desk as the air left his lungs in a rush.  
Sam reached out a long arm grabbing onto the edge of the desk in front of him.

In between gasping for air, struggling to keep his natural reflexes from sending his body hurling away from the pain and fighting to avoid embarrassing himself further by crying like a ten-year-old, Sam had another realization:

Dean had been able to take his beating in silence, hardly moving at all, something Sam, as a grown man, struggled to do, and had looked damn near going into a full blown panic, when that first, badly-aimed, strike on bare skin had made him stand up – what the hell had their Dad been doing to him, to get Dean to that point?

"Yeaaaawwww. Oh, shit Bobby."

Ok, now he understood why Dean had jumped up, amazing how much more it hurt on bare skin.

Sam's hands flew towards his rear, but he stopped himself and grabbed the table edge with both hands, pressed his face into his shoulder, and bit down on his shirt.

He couldn't stop the tears from sneaking out, but managed to contain the sounds his throat wanted to make, while Bobby patterned his thighs with red stripes.

Finally, finally, that last, hard, lash across the sit spots, the sound like a gunshot in the room, making Sam groan helplessly, then hiss as he felt the welt raise.

He stayed down, trying to get a grip on himself while he heard Bobby rustle with his clothes, getting the belt back on. A hand patted his back.  
"Come on Sam, get up, before Dean takes a swing at this old man."

Unsteadily Sam pushed himself to his feet. He almost fell into Bobby's arms, jeans still in a pool at his feet, but who cared about that, when Bobby held him tight, while his tears drained into the man's shirt and his sweat-soaked hair was being gently stroked.

Then Dean was there too, and the three tired men stood closely together, arms around each other.

Bobby was whispering that everything was okay, that everything was forgiven, that he loved them, that he was proud of them.

For a brief while Sam felt at peace, as he just let every worry go mind itself for a bit.

Dean took a deep breath and relaxed into the embrace of his family. For one shimmering moment in time he didn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He never forgot how that felt.


End file.
